The Song that No One Sings
One and Only
It’s all black and white now, and he is staring out the closed window again; watching the raindrops slide down the glass, connecting- beautifully. Gerard watches this from the kitchen table, half worried and half intoxicated by the mere site of the young guitarist. His hazel eyes follow the natural curve of Frank’s lean body; analyzing every bit of the raven haired man, as if he was worshipping his body in love making. Taking note of each strand of tasseled hair, and every exposed tattoo- where the fall, how they look… sweaty and glistened. But looking was one thing, touching another. Forbidden.
Frank turned his head slightly, as if hearing the older man’s strangled thoughts, and stared at him He was singing; a song Gerard couldn’t hear.
-
And now they are in bed. On their backs, staring. Breathing softly on the outside, but panicked on the inside. Frank’s eyes are focused on the closed window, at the little raindrops connecting, morphing, becoming one. Gerard can’t look at him like this: sprawled on the bed, with no shirt, his pants unbuttoned, as if ready to offer himself to the older man. Ready and waiting. Instead, Gerard focuses on the ceiling. The white ceiling. The perfect pure white ceiling that shows no shadows. No sin. No Problem. Gerard grips the sheets- the white sheets. The pure white sheets that hold no sin- no memories.
Gerard hears humming now. The tune to a beautifully unfamiliar song. He forces himself to look at Frank; the younger’s throat vibrating. Gerard want’s to touch. Feel. He wants to feel that smooth skin caress his worn out fingers. He wants to feel Frank shudder and sweat under him. Doesn’t he deserve it? Doesn’t he deserve the prize of feeling that explosion of love he sings about on stage? Doesn’t he? Unable to take it, Gerard reaches to touch Frank’s skin, only to have his hand collide with the clear box that surrounds the young guitarist. He presses his hand on the glass, hoping it would shatter and break for him…just this once?
Nothing. He gives up again. He returns to staring angrily at the pure white ceiling. He can’t hear Frank hum anymore. Gerard begins to wonder if Frank is in the clear box...or him.
-
They are back in the kitchen. Back in the room where it all started. Gerard is in his usual spot- the kitchen table- analyzing and over analyzing every little detail of Frank. Frank is against the closed window, tracing the lines Gerard wishes to trace on him, and watching the little raindrops fall like tears on the window. Gerard doesn’t understand why he is doing this; Gerard doesn’t understand a lot in this black and white world. He grips the table and tries to ignore Frank.
But Frank is singing now; Gerard can almost hear the soft tune invade his ears. Frank’s mouth is moving around the words; pronouncing each word softly…elegantly. Gerard could almost hear his voice; his imperfect voice that was not meant to sing, but to scream. To scream in his face all the words he ever wanted to say, sing, feel. Gerard can’t take it anymore. He jumps from his seat, sending it back into the wall where it crashes. Frank turns slightly, singing a little louder- beckoning- drawing Gerard in with his eyes that shine green against the black and white. The older takes a breath and glides to the short guitarist…slowly…to draw out each moment that their eyes are connected. He could almost see how their bodies would look together…how his lips would feel against Frank’s chapped and dry ones. He wants to let a smile slip from his cold face….
But when he gets mere inches from Frank…he stops. He thinks of all the trouble that would follow. The attacks. The blood and tears. The glass box surrounds Frank…or him…again, and Gerard is trapped. Frank turns around fully, and looks at him with those pleading green eyes. Touch. Just one touch is enough. But Gerard doesn’t move….
Frank leaves, singing the song Gerard can no longer hear. Stealing another glance at Gerard before walking out of the kitchen to another closed window. Gerard is alone again. He looks out the window of the kitchen, at the waterfall of rain. He touches the glass; it cracks and splinters against his touch, allowing some water to fall onto the kitchen tile. Gerard pulls his hand away quickly when a familiar pain hits his hand. He looks at his fingers…they are cut and bleeding. The sparkling red blood travels down his pale broken hands, and on to the black and white floor, adding a mysterious color….
And there’s hope….
Frank turned his head slightly, as if hearing the older man’s strangled thoughts, and stared at him He was singing; a song Gerard couldn’t hear.
-
And now they are in bed. On their backs, staring. Breathing softly on the outside, but panicked on the inside. Frank’s eyes are focused on the closed window, at the little raindrops connecting, morphing, becoming one. Gerard can’t look at him like this: sprawled on the bed, with no shirt, his pants unbuttoned, as if ready to offer himself to the older man. Ready and waiting. Instead, Gerard focuses on the ceiling. The white ceiling. The perfect pure white ceiling that shows no shadows. No sin. No Problem. Gerard grips the sheets- the white sheets. The pure white sheets that hold no sin- no memories.
Gerard hears humming now. The tune to a beautifully unfamiliar song. He forces himself to look at Frank; the younger’s throat vibrating. Gerard want’s to touch. Feel. He wants to feel that smooth skin caress his worn out fingers. He wants to feel Frank shudder and sweat under him. Doesn’t he deserve it? Doesn’t he deserve the prize of feeling that explosion of love he sings about on stage? Doesn’t he? Unable to take it, Gerard reaches to touch Frank’s skin, only to have his hand collide with the clear box that surrounds the young guitarist. He presses his hand on the glass, hoping it would shatter and break for him…just this once?
Nothing. He gives up again. He returns to staring angrily at the pure white ceiling. He can’t hear Frank hum anymore. Gerard begins to wonder if Frank is in the clear box...or him.
-
They are back in the kitchen. Back in the room where it all started. Gerard is in his usual spot- the kitchen table- analyzing and over analyzing every little detail of Frank. Frank is against the closed window, tracing the lines Gerard wishes to trace on him, and watching the little raindrops fall like tears on the window. Gerard doesn’t understand why he is doing this; Gerard doesn’t understand a lot in this black and white world. He grips the table and tries to ignore Frank.
But Frank is singing now; Gerard can almost hear the soft tune invade his ears. Frank’s mouth is moving around the words; pronouncing each word softly…elegantly. Gerard could almost hear his voice; his imperfect voice that was not meant to sing, but to scream. To scream in his face all the words he ever wanted to say, sing, feel. Gerard can’t take it anymore. He jumps from his seat, sending it back into the wall where it crashes. Frank turns slightly, singing a little louder- beckoning- drawing Gerard in with his eyes that shine green against the black and white. The older takes a breath and glides to the short guitarist…slowly…to draw out each moment that their eyes are connected. He could almost see how their bodies would look together…how his lips would feel against Frank’s chapped and dry ones. He wants to let a smile slip from his cold face….
But when he gets mere inches from Frank…he stops. He thinks of all the trouble that would follow. The attacks. The blood and tears. The glass box surrounds Frank…or him…again, and Gerard is trapped. Frank turns around fully, and looks at him with those pleading green eyes. Touch. Just one touch is enough. But Gerard doesn’t move….
Frank leaves, singing the song Gerard can no longer hear. Stealing another glance at Gerard before walking out of the kitchen to another closed window. Gerard is alone again. He looks out the window of the kitchen, at the waterfall of rain. He touches the glass; it cracks and splinters against his touch, allowing some water to fall onto the kitchen tile. Gerard pulls his hand away quickly when a familiar pain hits his hand. He looks at his fingers…they are cut and bleeding. The sparkling red blood travels down his pale broken hands, and on to the black and white floor, adding a mysterious color….
And there’s hope….
♠ ♠ ♠
I would like to personally thank collar blue for not onlly starting this challenge and bringing so many frerard writers and lovers together, but for being patient with me and my begs for extentions XD Thank you!